The Silver Stag Inn was louder than usual that night—the good kind of loud. Laughter spilled from every table, tankards clattered against wood, and the smell of roast venison filled the air. For once, the three squires of Highmarsh were not spectators to the noise—they were the cause of it.

  Zak raised his cup with a grin that could’ve lit the room. “To Toby of Highmarsh! The knight-slayer!”

  Reece groaned, rubbing his temple. “He’s not a knight-slayer. It was practice.”

  “Tell that to Sire Nigel’s pride,” Zak said, slapping Toby’s shoulder.

  Toby only smiled, though his face still burned faintly from all the attention. “It was luck,” he said.

  Reece snorted. “It was rhythm.”

  “Fine,” Zak said, waving his drink, “to luck, rhythm, and Highmarsh’s empty purse.”

  They laughed. For a while, that was all they did—laughed and ate like men starved. The roasted meat vanished fast, the bread even faster. Their arms ached, their bodies bruised, but the victory had given them something hot and steady in their chests: confidence.

  Tomorrow would bring more duels. Stronger ones. But tonight? Tonight, they ate like knights.

  When they finally stumbled up the narrow inn stairs to their beds, Toby paused at the window. The city glowed beyond, soft lanterns shimmering off tiled roofs. He thought of home—of Highmarsh, of Sire Kay, of Maxwell’s gruff voice.

  He smiled faintly. “We’ll make you proud,” he whispered.

  Then he slept like a man who’d earned the right to dream.

  Morning came bright and clear, the sun rising over Eaglelight’s high towers like a gold coin tossed into the sky. The second day of the tournament was faster, harsher—duels ran one after another, names shouted over the crowd until the air itself buzzed with excitement. The three squires advanced again and again.

  Zak fought like a storm, unpredictable and loud, nearly losing once when his opponent tripped him—only for him to roll with it, grab a handful of dirt, and blind the man just long enough to land his strike. He came away laughing, dust in his hair and pride twice as big.

  Reece was quieter, his duels clean and graceful. His timing perfect, his strikes measured. When he won his second round that day, even the officiant gave a nod of approval.

  And Toby—he didn’t win easily this time. His next two bouts were tests of endurance, sweat pouring down his neck, arms trembling from constant parries. But he held. He adapted. The training Maxwell drilled into him day after day now flowed like instinct. Every breath, every step, measured and precise.

  When the third bell after midday rang, marking the semi-final matches before sunset, the herald stepped forward, voice booming across the field.

  “Next bout—Reece of Highmarsh versus Toby of Highmarsh!”

  A ripple of surprise spread through the crowd. Two squires under the same banner—one calm as still water, the other tempered by fire.

  Zak whistled low. “Oh, this I’ve been waiting for.”

  Reece looked at Toby and gave a small grin. “You sure you’re ready?”

  Toby returned it. “You’re asking the wrong one.”

  They stepped into the ring together—no need for introductions, no need for ceremony. They bowed once, sticks raised.

  “Begin!”

  Their wooden swords clashed with a clean crack that sent shivers up the air. The first exchange was cautious—a test of reach, balance, and rhythm. Then Toby pressed, faster than expected. Reece countered, feet gliding over the dirt, parrying, slipping through. It was a dance more than a duel—every move learned from the same teacher, every strike countered by the same form.

  Zak leaned on the rail, whispering, “They look like reflections.”

  Toby struck high—Reece blocked. Reece swung low—Toby twisted away. They circled, blades whirling, breath ragged. The crowd had gone silent now, watching the two boys fight not for pride, but for proof. Then Toby feinted—a half-step forward, a flicker of movement that drew Reece’s guard too wide. The follow-up came clean and fast—a strike to the shoulder, then the chest.

  The officiant lifted his hand. “Match! Toby of Highmarsh!”

  The crowd erupted. Toby stood there, panting, the sound of his heartbeat louder than the cheering. He lowered his sword and looked at Reece—who was already smiling, wide and genuine.

  “Well fought,” Reece said, offering his hand.

  Toby took it, gripping tight. “You almost had me.”

  Reece laughed softly. “Almost.”

  Zak barreled into them both, throwing an arm around their shoulders. “That’s it! That’s how you make Highmarsh proud! Now, who’s buying the next round of mead?”

  Toby rolled his eyes, but smiled anyway. For a brief moment, with the sun above them and the crowd roaring, they weren’t squires or soldiers or students of war. They were brothers—three falcons beneath the same sky, rising higher with every beat of their wings.

  The crowd had barely settled after Toby’s victory when the herald called again, voice ringing over the field.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  “Zak of Highmarsh versus Sire Raymond of Goldeer!”

  A ripple of excitement rolled through the spectators. Sire Raymond—the golden knight of the eastern marches, veteran of three campaigns, and favorite to win the entire tournament. The man’s name carried weight like steel, his tabard proudly displaying a golden deer feeding.

  Zak froze mid-laugh, the color draining from his face.

  “Oh,” he said. “Wonderful.”

  Reece patted his shoulder. “Maybe he’s slow?”

  “Maybe,” Zak muttered, “and maybe pigs can sing.”

  Toby grinned, though his stomach twisted with nerves for his friend. “You’ve got this. Just… don’t die.”

  “Ha-ha,” Zak said dryly, tightening the strap on his gauntlet. “If I don’t come back, tell Maxwell I lasted at least five breaths.”

  “Imagine he’s a giant frog,” Reece tried to help.

  Sire Raymond was everything his reputation promised—broad-shouldered, his stance effortless. His green tabard gleamed in the sun, the outline of the deer stitched in silver thread, filled in with gold. His grip shifted lightly, balanced between ease and focus, the mark of someone long past needing to prove anything.

  Zak swallowed, rolling his shoulders as he stepped into the ring. The easy grin faded, his face tightening into the calm precision of someone who knew what mattered now. He raised his blade in salute. Behind him, the falcon banner of Highmarsh flapped in the breeze.

  Raymond inclined his head. “Ready when you are, lad.”

  The herald’s hand fell. “Begin!”

  Zak moved first, feinting high before sweeping low—testing. Raymond didn’t even shift his feet. He turned the blow aside with a wrist movement so small it was almost insulting. His counter came immediately, a sharp jab that struck Zak’s ribs before he could blink.

  “Point!” the officiant called.

  The crowd cheered, and Zak stumbled back, grinning through the sting. “Fast,” he muttered under his breath. “Too fast.”

  He reset his stance. This time, he didn’t rush. He waited, let Raymond circle. The older knight advanced with measured patience, his eyes calm, posture perfect. When he struck, it was clean as a bell tone—high slash, mid cut, low sweep. Zak blocked two and barely avoided the third, feeling the air cut near his thigh.

  “Come on then,” Zak hissed through gritted teeth, “I’m not done yet.”

  Zak pressed back, being bolder, putting more weight into each strike. His strikes were wild by comparison, but the crowd loved the effort. Raymond met each one easily, parrying with the economy of a master. Then, a quick sidestep—another hit to the chest.

  “Point, Sire Raymond!”

  Zak was breathing hard now, but he didn’t retreat. His knuckles whitened on the hilt, sweat trickling down his brow. Raymond raised a hand slightly, as if to say take a breath, but Zak lunged before the gesture finished.

  Wood cracked against wood. Raymond’s brows rose—surprised. Zak’s next swing came low, angled oddly, but the edge snapped across the knight’s thigh with a satisfying thock. The sound rang through the air, unmistakable.

  A gasp rippled through the stands. The officiant called, “One point, Zak of Highmarsh!”

  The crowd erupted. Raymond stepped back, nodding once, the faintest smile creasing his face.

  “Well struck.”

  Zak’s grin returned, crooked and breathless. “Had to make the Falcon proud.”

  But the break was brief. Raymond advanced again, faster now. The playfulness vanished from his eyes, replaced with professional intent—to crush with earned respect. He moved like a storm in armor. Zak barely saw the next three strikes. His arms burned, his parries slowed. Each hit rang through his bones until the last blow slipped through and tapped his chest square.

  “Match! Sire Raymond of Goldeer!”

  The roar that followed was deafening. Zak stumbled back a step, chest heaving, then straightened and saluted. Raymond removed his helm, revealing a lined but youthful face, sweat shining at his temples. He extended his hand.

  “You’ve got fight, lad.”

  Zak clasped it, still grinning through exhaustion. “You’re too kind, my lord. Thank you… for the bruises.”

  Raymond chuckled. “Bruises heal. Lessons stay.”

  When Zak rejoined Toby and Reece near the barrier, the two of them looked half in awe.

  “Where in Light’s name did that come from?” Reece asked.

  “Yeah,” Toby added, “that hit nearly turned the crowd upside down.”

  Zak sheathed his practice blade, still catching his breath. “We’ve got the Falcon’s name to uphold,” he said, voice rough but proud. “Even I can do my part.”

  The others laughed softly, but Toby saw the steadiness behind Zak’s smile. The quiet satisfaction of a man who’d faced a legend and earned his respect. Overhead, the banners of Goldeer and Highmarsh rippled side by side—both gilded with history, both stirring in the evening breeze.

  Zak turned toward him, wiping sweat from his brow. “Looks like it’s your turn now.”

  Toby met his gaze.

  “The weight of the falcon rests on your shoulder,” Zak said, half in jest, but his voice carried pride, faith, the unspoken bond of men who’d fought, bled, and grown together.

  Toby nodded once. “Then I’ll make Sire Kay proud to call us his knights.”

  Reece smiled. “Do your best.”

  They clasped forearms, the gesture firm and wordless. The sun had started to fall lower, a wash of amber over the practice fields. From across the grounds came the ring of steel, the calls of heralds, the restless murmur of hundreds waiting for the final match.

  An hour; the time between bells. That’s all the time that remained before Toby would step into the ring again—not against another squire, sellsword, guard, or some wannabe swordhand, but against a knight whose every movement defined mastery.

  He drew a slow breath, feeling the rhythm of it—in through the nose, out through the mouth, and remembered what Sire Ray had once said: Breath is rhythm. Rhythm is control. Maxwell’s voice echoed faintly in memory too—When fear sharpens you instead of breaking you.

  He looked toward the center of the field, where the attendants were sweeping away dust and resetting the boundaries for the championship bout. Beyond that, the banners fluttered in long lines—the falcon white and proud against the blue sky, beside a golden deer feeding against a green field.

  Reece nudged him with a grin that didn’t quite hide his nerves. “Don’t think too hard, or he’ll beat you before it starts.”

  Toby laughed quietly. “I’ll try not to make it easy for him.”

  Zak smirked. “You’d better not. That man fights like a storm—so make sure he remembers your name when it’s over.”

  Toby nodded again. “He will.”

  When the bells of Eaglelight finally tolled the hour—long and deep, the sound rolled across the fields like a heartbeat, drawing every gaze toward the dueling ring. The final round would begin.

  Toby of Highmarsh versus Sire Raymond of Goldeer. One knight seasoned by victory. One squire forged by loss and learning. The field awaited and Toby would spread his wings wider than ever before.

  Velaria: Reborn as a King (A Kingdom-Building Isekai Novel)

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